


14F NY

by aaa_mazing



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 04:18:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aaa_mazing/pseuds/aaa_mazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I want all my things in one place. I want everything that’s mine with me,” Brian said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	14F NY

Cynthia frowned looking through her boss’ planner. The page for Friday read “14F NY.” Nonsense, random numbers and letters. She smiled.  For anybody but her. She hadn't been working for and with Brian Kinney for years for nothing.

 

She pressed the button on the intercom. “Brian? Are you sure you don’t want Remson to be rescheduled for Monday?”

 

The voice on the other end of the line answered, “No. Why?”

 

“Because you don’t want to miss your plane.” She tried her best to mask “duh” in her voice.

 

“I won’t,” he barked. By now, he didn’t even wonder why he still hadn’t fired his assistant.

 

He’d been in his worst queening mode all day. Because where the fuck was his black silk shirt? How the fuck was he supposed to hold talks with Remson and make it to the airport, all in three hours? What a fucking weird coincidence was it that he was going to New York on February 14th? Again.

 

One black silk shirt still not found, two contracts signed, a forty minute ordeal of a snowy road, and five hours of an ass flattening flight, later he finally reached his destination.

 

The destination was a tiny New York apartment, which resembled more of a shoe-box than a place used for human habitation. But it was the only consensus they’d been able to come to, and that only because Brian had played dirty and told the still-full-of-romantic-bullshit boy that he wanted to ‘come home’ when in New York. That had done it, and there they were, in a tiny, but flatmate- and cockroach-free, apartment.

 

Brian didn’t remember drifting off. He only knew he was kissed awake, touches feathery soft on his hair and forehead.

 

When he opened his eyes, Justin was kneeling at the couch. “Hey.” He smiled lightly at Brian.

 

“Hey.” Brian blinked away the remnants of sleep and leaned into the touch. His return smile hardly touched his lips, but filled his eyes.

 

“Tired?” Justin’s restless fingers didn’t make the mess on the chestnut head any better.

 

“A little. Do they change the fucking distance between Pittsburgh and New York? The flights are getting longer and longer.”

 

“It’s just you getting older.” Justin grinned.

 

In a twinkling of an eye, Brian grabbed Justin and dragged the giggling blond on top of him. The giggles, though, were soon silenced by lips on lips.

 

There was something about those first kisses. They were kisses of reacquaintance, of re-learning each other, always like the first time no matter how many kisses already shared.

 

Justin pulled away reluctantly, uttered breathlessly, “Bed.”

 

Brain half pushed, half carried Justin to the bedroom, so small that the only item in it was an enormous bed, Brain's contribution to the furnishing. 

 

The next thing Justin knew he was on the bed, under a very naked Brian, clutching the headboard for dear life.

 

Brian leaned down to kiss the insides of Justin’s arm. Justin thought he could come just from that alone. Not only because of physical pleasure, which he was exclusively lucky to receive from the best, but the incredible feeling of one-ness with the man above him.

 

When Brian pushed in, Justin huffed, all the air was pushed out of his lungs with the first in-thrust, which was probably too fast, but neither of them really cared. No way they could do it slow. Slow would be later, when they just rocked against each other for an eternity, teetering on the edge of forever.

 

The only thing Justin could do was beg his body to hold on and remind himself to breathe. Because he lived all those weeks to have that incredulous sense of giving and being taken. Because it was not often that he saw Brian like that, moaning, gasping, whispering his name. “So deep, Justin. So tight.” The words burnt skin, set nerve endings on fire.

 

Their fingers bit into each others’ flesh, left bruises, because it had been a while, and it was too intense, and so long-awaited, and so wanted, and so desperately needed.

 

They whispered something to each other, exhaling hot-breathed words into hair, mouths, faces. The words were  nonsense, smeared by wet kisses, the hardly audible noises sounding like ‘god’, ‘yes’, ‘more’, ‘mine’.

 

The orgasm shocked them, swept them off this world’s surface, took them to other places far beyond.

 

Deep into the night, they still were not asleep. Not that they didn’t want to: it had been a long day for both. But staying awake meant some more time together.

 

“I brought you something.” Brian reached for his briefcase to get a sheet of paper out. Then added hurriedly, “It’s from Gus.”

 

Justin smiled at the hasty explanation. He didn’t need it, and even less did he need presents from Brian. What would he want for a present when he had already had everything in his life?

 

Brian unfolded the paper. “He insists it’s a cat. I didn’t want to discourage him, but it looks more like a vase with whiskers.”

 

Justin took the drawing, tilted his head, and narrowed his eyes. “Looks like a cat to me.”

 

“Well, you, abstractionists, know better.”

 

Both smiled. Gus craved to be an artist like his mother and Justin. But so far, his works suggested he’d be a better lawyer or an ad man.

 

In a couple of minutes of comfortable silence, Justin breathed out into Brain’s still wet hair. “Tell me.”

 

“It’s cold today.” Brian gave a one-shouldered shrug, his dark head on the blond’s pale chest.

 

“Tell me.” The blond tugged a chestnut strand lightly but insistently.

 

“You need a new laptop. This one is an old piece of shit.” Brain’s long eyelashes whispered against Justin’s still flushed skin.

 

“Tell me.”

 

Brain sighed. “Missed you,” he said, placing a soft kiss over Justin’s heart.

 

Justin gave a satisfied grin, nestled into the pillows, and murmured sleepily, “Missed you too.”

 

Brian woke up to the unwelcoming coolness of the sheets next to him. He sighed and for a moment thought that he’d been dreaming again, dreaming about Justin, about sex, about being together. But when the sleepy blur cleared, he recognized the bed, the flat, and smiled. Coffee, that’s what he needed right then. Although, a blowjob wouldn’t be that bad, either.

 

But he never made it to the kitchen.

 

Justin was painting. The pale winter sun poured into the living-room, making the easel glow, the mop of messy blond hair a golden halo. The lower lip got caught between teeth, then released only to be offended moments later. The work had been going on for a while, because the right hand clenched and unclenched automatically.

 

Justin finally lifted his head at the distinct sensation that he was being watched. He smiled lightly, as if embarrassed, and tucked a strand behind his ear.

 

 They just stood there staring, drinking each other in.

 

Suddenly Brian had to ruin the mood. Because too many thoughts pulsed at his temples. Too many words tickled his tongue.

 

He swallowed, forcing the words down his suddenly dry throat. “Well if it isn’t my mysteriously disappeared shirt?”

 

Justin’s fingers, brushes still in them, worried the hem of the aforementioned shirt.

 

“And it’s here why?” Brian raised an eyebrow.

 

Justin shrugged. “It smelled like you. I wanted to have it.”

 

“It must smell like shit! At least it looks like it. When did you steal it? A year ago?” The garment in question was so densely covered with stains and sprays of paint it was difficult to tell it had been black once.

 

“I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it. On Christmas or New Years. I don’t remember.”

 

Brian came up and leaned in to bury his face into Justin’s neck. He felt like warmth. And the shirt didn't smell like shit. Not at all. It smelled like Justin, cinnamon cookies, sex, oil paints, and home. “It’s annoying.” He murmured into the warm soft skin. “I want all my things in one place. I want everything that’s mine with me.”

 

It wasn’t like the realization of the words struck Justin. They never brought the question up but it was always there. They never discussed how or when or where they would come to live together.  They knew the solution would come one day, given it was only time.

 

Justin didn’t want to push. All Brian’s decisions seemed to be pushed, forced, by people or by circumstances. By baseball bats, by persistent twats, by club explosions, by homophobic fathers. So he just asked, “Where?”

 

Then Brian, the guru of hiding feelings, the sensei of cutting out emotional bullshit, simply said, “I don’t care where. With me.”

 


End file.
